Wheeling Gull Isle tongkola

I SEE UR A PERSON OF CULTURE AS WELL; jean m auel had me in a thrall for years lmao

bartholomew spoke earnestly. heda did not think she had ever heard him shout or exclaim. by turns she gazed at the ground between her paws, or the sea itself, or even his curling glossy profile. he spoke of things he had done, things he did not describe.
he shut his eyes and heda was finally able to look at him without being absorbed and dismantled by the knowingness in his face. bartholomew had pleasant, somber features, but she felt that in these silences he did go away, after a fashion.
where did he go? did his god speak to him again?
his gaze was upon her; heda had been caught staring. she blinked slightly but kept the connection. no blushing or evasiveness ever granted an answer. he had been a bad man. he had done bad things. now he had come back, and — impact? her?
"i'm t-the reason you feel that way?" heda asked, believing she had misheard. her mouth was dry. she clung to his living word. if that was what bartholomew had said, then it would be a first. no one had ever said anything remotely like this to her, not in memory.